And I want him.
I want all of him.
Callum slides himself inside me and I moan, the stretch giving way to pleasure.
“Is it too much?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. No but we shouldn’t be doing this,”
“Oh really? So, you want me to stop?” he asks knowing full well I don’t want that. In fact, I think I just might die if he stopped.
“No, I just…fuck that feels good. But we…aren’t…”
“We aren’t what? Together? I don’t give a shit, Amanda. You might be my fake wife, but the orgasm you’re about to have is very, very real.”
Callum drives further and further, crashing his hips into mine. “Fuck me! You feel so good,” he growls. “Do you still think we should stop?”
“Don’t even think about it,” I snap back and Callum chuckles.
“That’s my good girl. Now who’s pussy is it?”
“Yours,” I whisper.
“Say it again!”
“It’s your pussy, Callum. It belongs to you.”
With that, I lift my hips up to him, bucking against him harder and harder until the orgasm explodes inside of me before ripping through him.
Callum collapses on top of me, kissing me hard. Stealing what little air I have left in my lungs.
The next morning, I roll over and it takes me a while to realize where I am. Giant California King bed, wall of windows overlooking the now awake city, sleek stone railing overlooking the living area down below.
Callum’s.
I am at Callum’s penthouse, in his bed.
And the house smells like…breakfast.
I grab the sheet and wrap it around myself, making my way down the stairs. I find Callum in the kitchen. He’s in gym pants and nothing else. His hair is tousled from the night before and in the sunlight, I can see the shimmer of a salt and pepper five-o-clock shadow.
“Something smells good,” I say, sitting at a counter stool.
“Veggie frittata,” he says, pulling a cast iron out of the oven. It’s a gorgeous display of eggs, mushrooms, spinach, onions, feta and peppers. My mouth waters. “I also have multi grain toast and there’s coffee.”
“Yes please. To all of it,” I smile and push my hair back from my forehead. I must look crazy right now. But Callum just smiles. He makes our plates and hands me a mug of coffee. We dig in, me sitting on the stool in my sheet and him standing across from me shirtless and perfectly messy.
“There’s something I’d like to talk about,” he says after a few minutes.
I stop chewing as dread fills my stomach.
He wants me to leave.
We shouldn’t have done this.
We took it too far and he wants me out.
A million worries flood my head, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.
